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He was a precious little fuck. Deep set in the eyes and all atwitter and aglow from malice menace. Pulsing, pustulating, perturbing nefarious deeds soaked into his olive skin and weighed heavy on sagging cheeks courting that dirty smile. His mouth a sharp blade cutting into the night revealing sordid murders in month long sessions.

He thirsted for the skin, howled beggingly for faces of wealthy to-dos. Like a surgeon he scrapes and peels methodically the layers of tissue, epidermis curious. His breath on the neck, so close he gets to the “body” to hear every little rip and fleshy auditory indulgence. As the flesh comes down so too the knife makes it curvaceous way lower and lower; victim’s whimpers soiling the midnight air in gothic imaginings.

Blood drips and melds into the harmony of blade and skin that makes his dark symphony. A lesser demon would lap away at the sickly mess but not this one, he is a cultured monster, no objector of Lecter. What he craves is the mask on our bodies, the hide-all of the organ machine. Stripping and collecting little shards of his audience (they are the show and the viewer to him) as keepsakes and lively trophies.  He protects them, caresses them, keeps them in prime comic book nerd condition. This is the obsession, the twisted driving force of the mad man in the mad world. Nurtured by pain and violence with every slash of the whip, mommie dearest lives within. He has unraveled and turned within and without lashing and slashing away at back alley filler for the past. Oedipus Rex. Muddled psychology betwixt the firm actions and frail mind.

Shattered ego, distasteful leavings oozing off the metal gleaming tables. Red red rum and chrome den sheltering wails and pleas of mercy me what do I see. Life limps out of silent hands amid the surgeon’s toil. Another nameless youth disappears from history. No need to fear, the doctor is in.

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